The Final Reflections of Zero 3
by The 41st Maguanac
Summary: Trowa finally comes to terms with who he has become and the sacrifices he has made. The vayeate is destroyed, and time is running out. Is it really too late for the stoic pilot to find peace within himself?


Author's Note: I am writing this piece for my English coursework, so any constructive feedback would be really appreciated! I decided to take out the performance instructions for posting, as they take away from the flow. Also, I've used a little poetic license, so if things aren't quite how you think they are, I know already. :o)  
  
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is not mine, and neither is Trowa Barton, more's the pity.  
  
The Final Reflections of Zero 3  
  
By The 41st Magaunac  
  
No matter how many times you see it on a screen or in a textbook, it is truly impossible to convey the sheer size and scale of the expanse known as deep space. It seems to stretch away from me for hundreds upon thousands of miles in every direction.  
  
A lot of people think you endlessly float through space, but the last 3 hours have destroyed any false preconceptions I may have had on the subject. It's a miracle I even survived the explosion. It's not like I tried. There didn't seem much point. I've spent the last 5 years of my life training for a war which was over in a matter of months. Everything aches. I think the pain is so intense that my every nerve is shutting down, leaving the pain like a deep-seated burn which seems to coarse through my body like a runaway train.  
  
Where did I learn to think like that? Why the sudden flood of similes and analogies? Things used to be so black and white. Your enemies were the people who wanted to kill you. It was that simple. Then why am I floating through space like this? Why is the guy I would have liked to call my best friend responsible for this pain, and for my impending demise?  
  
Why does pain always seem to affect the kind people? Why is it that the kinder and the more open our hearts, the more deeply we suffer from the pain of others? Come to think of it, why am I spending my last minutes alive trying to answer these questions that other people have spent their whole lives trying to solve, and still come up with no solution? I trained for 5 years to fight in this war, and I never questioned a word I was told. Now, on the verge of death, I decide to start questioning it?  
  
What a bitch.  
  
I heard once before that the threat of death has some strange effects on people. I've killed enough people myself to know. Some people cry, some yell, some just hang their heads and accept it. You can't describe it though. I wonder which category I would fall into?  
  
Well, screaming isn't going to help me now, and I can't even remember the last time I cried. No, wait. That's a lie. I remember when I had to destroy the Gundam Deathscythe. For that moment, just as I pulled that trigger, I felt that maybe I was losing a part of myself, as I watched that metallic humanoid form become nothing more than a few scraps of space debris.  
  
I cried then. My tears floated in the zero-g compartment like fairy lights on a Christmas tree.  
  
I wonder how I would have reacted had it been my Gundam, Heavyarms? Maybe I've underestimated the attachment between me and my mobile suit. It's still in storage now, back on the space colony where I left it. I can't help but wonder if Heavyarms has become a lot more to me than just the few tonnes of metal that it is.  
  
A few tonnes? How can I say that as though it were nothing at all? I suppose sometimes I forget how threatening a mobile suit can appear to someone, especially when I spend so much time in the cockpit of one, surrounded my more flashing lights than a hotel in Las Vegas. I look down at all those little people fleeing back and forth like ants, and I think, 'You poor little buggers… what are you doing? Where are you running to? What are you afraid of?'  
  
When was the last time I was really afraid? I mean, really really afraid? It must have been a long time ago. Back when I was involved in the guerrilla warfare when I was on Earth. What is that now? 5 years ago? That sounds about right. That was when I met Trowa Barton for the first time.  
  
I mean, the real Trowa Barton. My namesake.  
  
I don't remember him as well as perhaps I should. He was very tall; I remember that much, with a shock of muddy brown hair, and green eyes like a pong suffocated by algae. It was as though his entire body was designed from the womb to be perfect for guerrilla warfare. He was fast and agile, and used to practically bound through the jungles like a gazelle on amphetamines.  
  
I guess I remember more about him than I thought. I remember the day he died. It wasn't even as if I hadn't seen people die before. It was during my last months with the guerrillas. A napalm strike was the final score for him. And half of the rest of the company for that matter, but I don't remember any of them very well. I was only with them because I had nowhere else to go. I was an orphan, hardly unusual for the time, and they referred to me as 'Nanashi'.  
  
No name. That's what it meant. It suited me well. I was a nobody. All the same, I think Trowa's death was the most influential thing to happen to me so far. That and my impending death, I suppose. I spent those last few minutes just watching him die. I think it was then that I truly realised how unromantic death is. There were no last inspiring words to warm our hearts. It wasn't like a scene out of a movie. He just… Waited to die.  
  
Like I am right now. 10 minutes and counting. How ironic. I don't know why they called me Trowa Barton after him. Maybe it was because we had the same eyes. I can see them right now, in my reflection on inside of the glass of my helmet.  
  
That wasn't where it ended though, was it? No. Not content with the spoils of guerrilla warfare, I had to go into space. That's where I got identity number three.  
  
'Zero 3.' That was my new name. It wasn't exactly my name, just that of my Gundam, Heavyarms. 16.7 metres tall and 7.7 tonnes of Gundanium alloy all formed into the shape of some kind of giant man. A giant soldier, with me shielded inside the middle of its chest, like a tortoise hiding in its shell.  
  
I don't really know why they chose that shape. I guess the 'glory' of war has not yet completely left us, despite the millions of lives it has claimed. People prefer to use the more human forms of the mobile suits. They enjoy watching humans slaughter each other.  
  
I never thought of it like that before. Had I the oxygen to waste, I might even laugh.  
  
I can't help it! All I want to do is laugh and laugh and laugh until I'm sick. I've spent my entire life in silence; acting like I haven't seen the things I've seen.   
  
I've lived a life of 15 years, I've been fighting since I was in diapers, and I was brought up and weaned on to a diet of saturated bullshit as time after time I've been lied to. I've had three identities, each of them different, but each the same. They've all been me. They've all been my name, my job, my life, and I thought that was enough.  
  
But it isn't, is it. I don't want to die not knowing who I really am anymore.  
  
Maybe I should count myself lucky. Some people spend their whole lives just trying to find one identity, but I've already got three. Lucky you, Trowa Barton. Lucky you Nanashi. Lucky you Zero 3… or whoever the Hell you are.  
  
So this is it, is it? Left to rot, floating in space for all eternity? If a hundred years from now someone found my floating corpse, would anyone even remember who I was? Just another soldier without a name. Another soldier who died alone, with only his reflections for company.  
  
Nanashi by name. Nanashi by nature. Nanashi to the end.  
  
  
END  
  
Any reviews will be really appreciated! 


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